“How do you do it?”

I don’t get the question. There is no doing “it” here, writing is a bunch of things, but people seem to think that the craft is all about sitting down, typing away, and then you’re done. I used to ask the carpenters building houses the same thing, but then I got this thing with the nail in my forehead and I forgot what I was talking about.

“I want to live like you do!”

Of course you do, you think that all I do is drink and write and slouch around listening to music way too complicated for you, while waiting for inspiration to hit like a multiple muse-fueled orgasm. That’s not how it works, I’m actually hungover just like the rest of you.

“I’ve written a book, three of ’em actually, they’re in my drawer and they’re awesome you know…”

No, they’re not. Do you know how I can say that? They’re in your drawer, which is a piss-poor place to store manuscripts. There are these things called hard drives and whatnot these days. I’ll troglodyte with the best of them, but storing a manuscript in your sock drawer is just plain stupid. So is your book, if you keep it there. So there!

“You have it easy!”

Fuck yeah I do! Except when I’m not, of course.

“Hey, if it doesn’t sell, just self-publish an ebook and make a few grand, write a $3,000 piece for Vanity Fair and have Wired commission something hip!”

I’ll get right on that, but first I need to learn how to fellate myself, because that sounds just as likely. And just like your notions, it is about as possible for a fat drunken bastard as yours truly.

“Why don’t you make money on your blog then?”

Fuck you, I’m not a blogger!